


Le Lycanthrope

by Bobcatmoran



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Werewolves, canon AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 22:08:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bobcatmoran/pseuds/Bobcatmoran
Summary: On a dark and stormy night, Jean Prouvaire receives an unexpected visitor.





	Le Lycanthrope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [C-chan (1001paperboxes)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001paperboxes/gifts).



Nearly every city, town, village, or even hamlet has their own claim to fame, whether it be as grand as the Great Pyramids of Giza or as modest as “one time Farmer Laurent grew a carrot and it looked just like a certain unmentionable part of the male anatomy.”

The village of M———, unusually for a settlement of its size, had not one, but two claims to fame. The first was the tree that M. Jean-Jacques Bahorel (Racine de la Liberté Bahorel off the official rolls, which tended to frown upon republican creativity when it came to naming trends) had grafted so that it grew four different types of plums, and which he charged a nominal fee to view while it was in flower or fruit.

The second was the unusually high frequency of lycanthropy.

Lycanthropy, as any well-informed citizen of that area of the Midi knows, is carried not by bite, as is commonly supposed by outsiders, but by blood. That is to say, it is as hereditary as eye color or height, though it tends to pass down from mother to son, similar to baldness. 

Jean-Garance Bahorel, eldest nephew of the Bahorel of plum-grafting fame, was one who had inherited this trait. 

* * *

 

It was a dark and stormy night. Jean Prouvaire had decided to leave his windows wide open, the better to enjoy the weather. The wind was, for the time being, directing the rain away from the open windows, though still howling through the trees and alleys. Between that and the lightning, it was delightfully dramatic.

Suddenly, the sense of drama was heightened even further by a woman’s shriek coming from downstairs, in the general direction of the concierge’s apartment. A great thumping came up the stairs, as though some enormous beast was galumphing its way into the building. The thumping came to a sudden stop outside Prouvaire’s door, followed by a more distant, but rapidly approaching, string of decidedly un-ladylike swearing from the concierge. Something scratched at Prouvaire’s door, begging to be let in. Prouvaire opened the door. “Oh, hello,” he said, staring at a great wolf, all dark and shaggy hair. It stood at nearly chest height. 

The concierge came puffing up the stairs. “Monsieur Prouvaire, is that your dog?” she asked, pointing an accusing finger at the beast in question.

“Euh, yes, he is,” Prouvaire said.

The wolf glared at him.

“I mean,” Prouvaire corrected himself, “He is not _precisely_ my dog, as he is a free spirit who no one can lay claim to, but he is an associate of a dear friend who is doubtless terribly worried as to where his canine companion has gotten to, and so I shall take responsibility.”

“Your dog barged in right past me. It shouldn’t be allowed, dogs being that big and pushing people about,” the concierge complained. “Well. See that you and your friend take care of him.” She headed back downstairs, muttering about Romantics and their odd pets.

Prouvaire smiled. “Well, do come in,” he said, addressing the wolf.

It trotted in with a self-satisfied air.

“You shouldn’t have frightened Madame,” Prouvaire said, settling back onto the divan by the window. “She is very nice when she is not being startled by lycanthropes. Would you like me to get you a towel?” he enquired, noticing the wolf’s dripping fur.

The wolf responded by shaking his fur out, spraying water everywhere. 

“Ackpht,” Prouvaire responded, bringing his hands up to guard against the spray. “Well, now I shall need a towel.” 

The wolf gave a canine grin, then ambled over to plant itself in front of the fire.

“I suppose you had a good night of it, then?”

An unwolf-like shrug.

“Chase after any rabbits?”

The wolf shook its head.

“Oddly nocturnal squirrels?”

Another head shake.

“Or gendarmes?”

There was the grin again, even bigger this time.

“You are terrible,” Prouvaire said fondly. “I cannot imagine what stories they are telling back at the police station.”

The wolf continued to grin, even more widely if that was possible.

“Tales of a great beast, lurking out of the shadows, a vision of death itself come manifest,” Prouvaire said in sepulchral tones. Then, in a lighter voice, he said “Oh! Speaking of great beasts, I just got this book. It’s from an English author, Shelley. Now, don’t make that face, I know what you think of Percy Shelley. No, this is by his wife. It’s not terribly recent, but it’s a delightful tale. Here, would you like me to read it to you?”

The wolf nodded.

_“You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings…”_ Prouvaire began.

* * *

 

The next morning, Prouvaire found himself awoken by a rather insistent sunbeam. He was sprawled on the divan and there was an odd weight on top of him. He attempted to sit up, only to accidentally knock a very naked Bahorel onto the floor.

“Oh!” Prouvaire exclaimed. “Sorry!”

“Ugh,” said Bahorel, groaning as he got up. “I think I must be getting old. Every full moon, it makes my joints ache.”

“You’re hardly an old man,” Prouvaire said. “How did you manage to come here last night, anyhow? I’d have asked you when you arrived, but I know you are a limited conversationalist while you are transformed.”

“Mm,” Bahorel said, stretching. “One of the gendarmes gave chase, a great bulldog of a man with sideburns like bushy-tailed squirrels. I ducked into the shadows of an alleyway to escape him just as it started to rain. I was quite a ways away from my own lodgings at that point, but only a few blocks away from yours. Say, I don’t suppose you still have that outfit I left here last time?”

Prouvaire dug through the layers of clothing dangling from the horns of a poorly taxidermied antelope that adorned the wall. “Ah, here they are!” He shook out the shirt, trousers, and waistcoat. They remained stubbornly wrinkled. 

“You, my friend,” Bahorel said, “are a poor custodian of fine clothing.” He attempted, futilely, to smooth out the shirt before shrugging and pulling it on over his head. “No matter. Here, once I am properly attired, I’ll take you out to breakfast as a thank you for being my host for the night.”

**Author's Note:**

> I decided that Bahorel was named after his birthday in the Republican calendar. Garance (November 13) is the plant known as Madder in English, and a brilliant red dye can be produced from its roots. Of course, he is also named Jean, because as we all know, Everyone Is Jean. 
> 
> Also, like fun I was gonna take the character based on an actual person who went by the nickname “Le Lycanthrope” and not make them a werewolf after getting that prompt. I mean, c’mon.


End file.
